


and we play all the same old games

by Sapphire_blue



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Time Travel, F/F, F/M, Fix-It, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, R plus L equals J, Time Travel, Time Travel Fix-It, arya is very zen, sansa likes plans
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-21
Updated: 2017-08-16
Packaged: 2018-05-27 14:37:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6288442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sapphire_blue/pseuds/Sapphire_blue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a desperate attempt to win the war against the Others, Jon Snow travels back in time with the help of Melisandre and Samwell Tarly. What they did not expect was to have the surviving Starks along for the journey. Now, they must unite to rewrite history and save the realm from tearing itself apart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Beginning of the End

**Author's Note:**

> The wonderful [Naysa](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Naysa/pseuds/Naysa) has honoured me by agreeing to beta read this story. Naysa, thank you for listening to me ramble for hours. You have the patience of a saint.
> 
> I have been thinking about this time travel fic for a long while. Being the lazy bum that I am, I finally got around to it. So, without further ado, read on!

The 998th Lord Commander of the Wall, Jon Snow, stared at her with almost a manic gleam in his eyes. Sitting at the table with Melisandre on the opposite side, his fingers were tapping on the wood rhythmically.

“Are you certain this will work?”

Melisandre hesitated for the briefest of moments before meeting his eyes, “Yes, I am certain.”

Jon shifted his eyes to Samwell Tarly beside her, “And you, Sam?”

Fingers pressing into the pages of the book in front of him, the plump man visibly deflated, “With Daenerys Targaryen dead and her dragons roaming free over the Dothraki sea, it is our best option.”

The sound of fingers tapping on the wood abruptly stopped. Jon Snow pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes, a world weary sigh leaving him. He looked utterly resigned.

“It is our best option. The Lord of Light has foreseen this. You can win the war against the Others,” the Red Priestess paused for a moment before continuing, “As long as you don’t lose sight of your mission.”

Jon glanced at her sharply, “And what is that supposed to mean?”

Melisandre held up a slender hand to placate him, “We do not doubt your sincerity, Lord Snow, but it is true that you may be overcome with emotions at the sight of your family and act otherwise.”

Jon glared at her, words ripping out of his throat in a cold fury, “I would say that is more of a reason to stop the Others, so they will be safe.”

Melisandre met his eyes unflinchingly, “And what of Arya Stark? What is stopping you from grabbing her and, say, running away to Braavos?”

Jon took too long a moment in his reply, “That is absurd. How dare you suggest such a thing?”

The Red Priestess shrugged, “Arya Stark is your weakness.”

Jon turned to look at Sam, who avoided meeting his eyes, “You did betray your vows for her.”

Jon did not – could not – deny that.

His mouth tightened, remembering daggers in the dark, flames licking at his flesh. His skin prickled at the reminder of being reborn in fire and ash. The memory of a girl with tangled hair and sparkling eyes soothed the ache.

“She was my little sister,” he said into the sudden silence.

“She was your cousin,” Melisandre countered, “Perhaps you are more Targaryen than you realize.”

For a split second, Jon envisioned what it would have been like. Him and Arya, the two outcasts bound together by the Old Gods. But all he could see was her toothy smile as she grinned up at him, and he abandoned that trail of thought with a hot flush of guilt.

“My lady, I suggest you cease that line of questioning immediately.”

Melisandre looked at him thoughtfully before nodding, “As you wish, Lord Snow.”

“Perhaps we should try the spell now?” Sam spoke up hesitantly.

“Very well,” Jon sighed.

“You know what to do?”

“We have been planning this for days. I have no other choice.”

Jon breathed out a puff of air, suddenly feeling years older than he truly is. He felt so, so tired and weary in his bones. He took the knife offered by the Red Priestess and sliced into his palm, as droplets of blood pooled into the fire of the candle Melisandre had placed before him.

“Then let us begin.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this is an idea that's been stuck in my head for a while. I am finally putting it down into words. The updates will be unscheduled and sporadic, but I will try my best. If I'm being a lazy bum, I give you my full permission to yell at me about it on my [tumblr ask](http://horcrucxs.tumblr.com/ask).
> 
> (Yes, [Naysa](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Naysa/pseuds/Naysa), I'm taking a leaf out of your book)
> 
>  
> 
> Cheers,  
> Sapphire xoxo


	2. Ghost of Yesterday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon Snow wakes up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was beta read by the lovely [Naysa](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Naysa). Once again, thank you Naysa for being so wonderful. And shoutout to the anon who was kind enough to remind me to write and stop being a lazy bum. Thank you, anon, whoever you were xx

When Jon Snow wakes up, it is to the taste of ash in his mouth. It takes him a while to remember.

Once he does, he shoots up from the bed. He stares at the familiar walls of his room in Winterfell in awe. He had forgotten how they were. The colour, the texture. Jon wonders what else he has forgotten. His room seems smaller somehow and the castle feels as if it will slip through his fingers and crumble on top of his head, back to the ruins he heard it had become.

The smell, though; he thought he had forgotten how his room smelled, but as he takes a deep breath, memories come flooding back. Robb’s laughter and Bran’s curious nature and Rickon’s little voice all fluttering in the wind, ghosting against his skin.

And Arya’s mischievous smile and the soft hair that he would muss.

He is in his room, he really is back in Winterfell, before true pain and death and loneliness.

It worked. _It worked._

Jon feels his muscles relax as he makes his way towards the window and opens the latch. The sight of Winterfell in all its glory knocks him off balance for a moment. Night has fallen, but there are still a few people milling about. He breathes in, and the scent of fresh snow has never been more wonderful.

This Winterfell had never been betrayed, its people never been slaughtered. This Winterfell has never been a graveyard.

 _Arya_ , he suddenly remembers.

Arya is still here, just a few chambers away, unaware of the fate that is awaiting her.

 _A fate that will not happen again_ , he vows to himself, _he will not fail her this time_.

His elation at being back in Winterfell slowly fades away as weariness seeps into his bones. He is once again a boy of four and ten but he feels the weight of his true age like a vice around his heart. His limbs feel loose and he thinks about collapsing into the warmth of his bed. He takes a step forward before halting himself. He knows sleep will elude him until he knows for himself that his little sister is safe.

_Arya, oh how sweet it would be to see her now._

She will be in her bedchambers, and most likely asleep, dreaming of adventures to come.

He will just knock on her door, he tells himself, and hug her good night if she’s still awake.

 

* * *

 

He stares at her door, contemplating whether to knock, when it springs open. He feels his heart pounding as Arya stares up at him. He opens his mouth but it is as if he has lost the ability to speak. It occurs to him that Arya is saying something but he can hear nothing over the sound of his own heart beating loudly against his ribcage.

He vaguely registers being yanked inside the chambers as slender hands wrap themselves around his wrist. He stares as Arya peers into the hallway before closing the door and looking up at him expectantly.

“Well?” She asks, with her eyebrows raised.

He takes her in, eyes flying frantically over her face, memorizing every feature, and manages to choke out the words, “Little sister.”

She tilts her head to the side quizzically, as if trying to figure him out. He has not come here intending to puzzle her, but he is but a man, spending an eternity away from home, and his resolve breaks. He crosses the distance between them in two quick strides and crushes her to his chest. Her arms lock behind his neck instantly and she nuzzles her head into his chest. She is little, and it breaks his heart that he never got to see her grow up, that she died before she ever had the chance to grow up. His arms tighten around her waist and he whispers into her hair, “I missed you, little sister.”

Arya leans back and peers up at his face curiously before nodding and pulling him towards her bed.

“Alright, something is wrong. What is it?”

She has always known him best; loved him when no one else did. Two halves of one soul, they are. But this is a burden he must bear alone, so he ruffles her hair and says, “Nothing’s wrong. Everything’s fine. I just missed you is all.”

She does not look like she believes him, but something in his face must have warned her off, because she just nods and curls up against him so that they are both lying on her bed with her ears pressed against his heart.

“Are you not going to sleep?” He asks her, partly to distract her from her line of questioning, and partly because he just wants to listen to her talk, hear her voice, know that she is here with him, and not lost in a war ravaged country.

“I was planning to but then I heard your footsteps,” she confesses quietly, fingertips tracing an unknown pattern on his chest.

“You need to sleep. I should go,” he murmurs but makes no move to follow his words.

Arya must have read his reluctance for her fingertips cease tracing patterns and instead clasp around his wrist, pressing down on his pulse.

“You don’t need to go,” she whispers, “You can stay if you’d like.”

He wants to. _Gods_ , how he wants to. He is afraid that in the morning, she will be gone and he will wake up on the Wall, with a frozen wasteland at his feet. But –

“I don’t think your mother – “

Arya cuts him off mid-sentence with a well-aimed nudge at his ribs, “Only if she catches you. You need me tonight, I know you do.”

He does. He needs her as he needs air, and he has always needed her, will always need her. He thinks of the war yet to come, of broken little sisters and dead brothers, and throws every bit of caution out the window.

“Okay,” he breathes out, “Okay.”

He feels the weight of the world leaving his shoulders, and silently thanks the fierce little sister who has always been his home. He tugs her closer to him, and buries his face in her hair. He closes his eyes, blearily notes that Arya’s breaths have evened out, before falling into Morpheus’s arms.

 

 

In the morning, Jon Snow wakes up to a weight on his chest and a knife against his throat

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, Jon is finally back where he belongs. I hope I didn't overdo it with the emotions. As always, every kudos, bookmark and comment mean the world to me. Share your opinion in a comment, even if it's just a few words. Constructive criticism is welcome, and if I have made a mistake anywhere, please tell me so I can fix it. Thank you!
> 
> Cheers,  
> Sapphire xoxo


	3. you can't wake up, this is not a dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A girl must decide what to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was beta read by the lovely [Naysa](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Naysa). Once again, thank you Naysa for being such a sweetheart.

A girl rouses to warmth at her back and a hand on her waist. She stiffens, wondering who would, and actually could, climb into bed with her at night without having their throat slit.

 _It could be Jaqen_ , she muses, _or whatever face a man has now, come to her after an assignment._

“A man is treading on a dangerous path here,” she murmurs with her eyes still closed. When a man does not response, she frowns. It is not like a man to be this unaware of his surroundings.  And as the last drop of slumber leaves her body, she suddenly becomes aware of her _own_ surroundings. The bed she is lying upon is too soft, too foreign. When she opens her eyes, her chamber is not as it was the night before.

 _Is it a test?_ She wonders.

A girl slowly turns around to face a man, and the face she sees is that of a ghost from her dreams. It startles her, so much so that she almost falls off the bed. _Jon_ , a voice whispers in her head, _your brother._

But a girl has no brother named Jon and the Jon who is Arya Stark’s brother is miles away trapped behind a wall of ice.

 _It must be another test_ , a girl decides.

She reaches for the dagger she keeps under her pillows but her hands meet soft sheets. She looks around the chamber, looking for something to use, when her peripheral vision catches a glint of silver. Slowly, as to not wake the impostor, she slides off the bed and makes her way across the room to the corner where there is a dinner knife on a desk.

 _Who keeps a dinner knife on a desk?_ A girl absentmindedly wonders as she climbs back onto the bed. She straddles the man and presses the knife against his throat, not hard enough to draw blood but enough to wake him up. As the man opens his eyes, a girl is caught off guard for a moment. His eyes are familiar. Familiar eyes on a familiar face. A shiver of fury runs through her veins. The Gods are cruel to taunt her so.

“Where did you get that face?” A girl hisses at the man, her hand tightening around the knife.

“Arya,” the man breathes, almost reverently, and it makes a girl’s heart beat wildly.

 _This is a test_ , a girl reminds herself.

“A girl is no one,” she snaps at him and presses the knife harder against his throat, “Tell me, where did you get that face?”

The man – the boy, truly – looks bewildered and answers in a confused tone, “It’s Jon, Arya. Jon, your brother?”

“A girl has no brother named Jon,” she tells him blankly, “Who are you?”

A pained look takes over the boy’s features momentarily before he whispers, “Your half-brother Jon.”

“A girl has no brother named Jon,” a girl reiterates, “nor a half-brother.”

The boy seems to realize something as his face contorts into an expression of horror.

“Arya,” he speaks very carefully, “What do you last remember?”

“A girl does not answer to a boy,” she says quietly, “Who sent you?”

“Little sister,” the boy stares at her with a penetrating gaze, “No one sent me. We are at Winterfell.”

_Winterfell. Home. Little sister. Needle. Jon Snow._

The words keep coming and she clutches at her head, letting go of the knife held at the boy’s throat. A part in the back of the girl’s mind stirs; a part she had hidden deep within. A girl feels Arya Stark clawing her way out to the surface and somewhere she hears a wolf howl. Startled, a girl leaps off the boy, landing on the floor gracefully. She sways very lightly in her spot before she flees the room, leaving the pained looking impostor on her bed.

She runs, she runs, and she runs. She runs until she cannot anymore. Dawn hasn’t broken into daylight yet and there is no one to witness her flight. She pants, slightly breathless. Absentmindedly, she notes that her balance is not as it was the night before. Shaking the thought off, she takes notice of where her feet have taken her. She stands at the foot of the broken tower.

_Where Bran fell from._

_This is a very detailed test_ , a girl decides, _or a very painful dream._

If this is a test, it is a test Arya Stark will fail. If this is indeed a dream, then it is a dream Arya Stark must end.

It cannot be a test. The Kindly Man cannot procure such an exact replica of Winterfell, no matter how powerful he is. A dream it is.

 _How does one end a dream?_ She remembers asking the waif once. “ _You fall,”_ the waif had answered her with an ease that spoke of experience.

So fall she must.

With steady steps, she makes her way into the tower adjacent to the broken tower and takes the stairs until she reaches the squat round fortress that was taller than it looked. The First Keep was the oldest part of the castle. Her little brother used to climb the gargoyles that leaned out the empty space, she remembered. Their lady mother had been terrified of Bran’s ease at climbing old rocks. _With good reason too_ , she muses now, as she looks out the row of windows.

She walks slowly towards the last window that stares at the broken tower where it leans close. Cautiously, she climbs atop the sill and gazes down at the courtyard. The courtyard is mostly empty and the very few people who are milling about are not looking up towards where she is.

For a moment, she observes the home she once had, feeling a pang somewhere in her chest before she wills herself to steel. She is Arya Stark only in this dream and when she wakes up, she will be no one again.

Taking a deep breath, she is just about to fall when a hand clasps around her wrist with a tight grip.

“Arya,” Jon Snow hisses, “What _are_ you doing?”

“I thought that was rather clear,” Arya replies, rather acerbically. She is trying not to look at him or else her resolve will break. How cruel the Gods must be to mock her with the face of her beloved brother.

“Why are you trying to do _that_?”

She glances down at the ground below, and twisting her lips into a bitter smile, she murmurs, “Did you know that your dream ends when you die?”

Jon, or this sad little version of him in her dream, makes a horrified noise and yanks her back into the room and on the floor. With shaking hands, he takes her face into his palms and forces her eyes to meet his. She has no choice but to look.

“Listen to me, Arya,” he growls, “You will not die. This is not a dream and you will _not_ die!”

“You look like him, you sound like him, but you are not him. How can this not be a dream?”  She is screaming now, tears streaming down her face. She furiously wipes at her cheeks. She is not a little girl anymore. She will not cry.

“This is not a dream, little sister,” he inhales deeply before speaking again, in a tone as gentle as the summer breeze, as if afraid of frightening her. That makes her even more furious. She is not a child, but she feels like one all the same. “I will explain to you later. Please come with me.”

He slowly lets go of her face and tugs at her hand. When she refuses to move, he whispers one word, just one word.

“ _Please_.”

Arya goes with him.

 

*     *     *

 

He takes her back the way she came, hiding in shadows to avoid being seen. At one point, she hears him mumble, “All this time, I thought you dead, but you -” but he doesn’t finish the thought and she doesn’t ask him to. The pain laced in his voice makes Arya Stark’s heart break.

Instead of taking her to her chambers, he takes her to the kitchens. Right when they are about to enter, though, they are ambushed. A blur of red wraps itself around her and she laments her idiocy at leaving the dinner knife back in her chambers. Just as she is about to punch her attacker, she realizes she is being embraced. It is a strange feeling. Other than the embrace she had woken up in in the morning, she has not been hugged in years.

She glances at Jon, only to find him locked in an embrace with a young boy. When they separate, she is stunned to see Bran looking at her. Her little brother is staring at her in wonder.

Slowly, very slowly, she leans back to look at her assailant, and blue eyes filled with tears look back at her.

“Arya,” Sansa Stark whispers, “I have missed you so, sister.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's been a long time since the last update but I can explain! Okay, I can't, not really. I got stuck halfway through the chapter about a month back and then I only finished it by blasting those Arya Stark fanmixes on 8tracks on full volume. I'll try to be more prompt, but no promises.
> 
> Once again, thank you for reading my story! As always, every kudos, bookmark and comment mean the world to me. Share your opinion in a comment, even if it's just a few words. Constructive criticism is welcome, and if I have made a mistake anywhere, please tell me so I can fix it. I have a really bad habit of getting distracted halfway through sentences.
> 
> Thank you!
> 
> Cheers,  
> Sapphire xx


	4. with truth and love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The truth is revealed.

It is a miracle.

Sat at a table in the empty kitchen, Jon stares at his siblings - the siblings he thought he had lost.

It truly is a miracle.

“I woke up, and I did not know where I was,” Sansa says, with tear tracks marring her face, “I thought it was a dream.”

“A cruel dream,” Arya adds quietly, and Sansa nods.

“Yes, a cruel dream.”

Bran – oh Bran, the last time he’d seen him, he was lying broken – speaks up, and he sounds older than his years, “There must be a reason why we are back.”

“Aye,” Jon says, “I had a red priestess help me come back, but she did not tell me that you all would be back too.”

“Red priestesses are like that,” Arya suddenly hisses, “Only speaking in riddles and half-truths.”

“What made you come back?” Bran asks softly, “Sorcery like that shouldn’t be used idly.”

Jon pauses for a minute before sighing, “The white walkers, We were losing the war.”

“But that was just a story Old Nan used to tell us! The White Walkers have been gone for a thousand years!”

“No, Sansa,” Bran says, “Jon speaks the truth. I have seen them too.”

“But they are just stories. How can they – “

“Rickon!” Arya cuts Sansa off suddenly, “Do you know if Rickon is back as well?”

“I – “ Bran begins, “I do not know. He was sleeping when I woke up.”

“Well, I am going to go and check,” Arya says before promptly speeding out of the kitchen.

“She – “ Bran hesitates, “She seems different.”

“We all are,” Sansa reminds him gently.

“She does not truly believe we are here. She believes this to be her dream,” Jon reluctantly admits.

“Perhaps,” Bran says before sighing quietly, “We must go now. The kitchen staff will be here shortly. Best if they don’t find us in here.”

“Aye.”

 

 *     *     *

 

He finds her again in her chambers. When he knocks on her door, she opens it and lets him in quietly.

Before he can even utter a word, she speaks up, “I do not want this to be a dream, Jon.”

He cups her shoulder gently with both hands and tugs her closer into a hug.

“Then don’t let it be. This is not a dream, little sister. It’s real. _I’m_ real.”

But Arya, fierce little Arya, raises her head and looks at him, “But what if it is? What if I wake up tomorrow on my bed in Braavos? What then?”

“Braavos? Is that where you were?”

“That’s not important right now.”

“It is! You were in Braavos! You were safe!” He crushes her in a hug again but Arya pushes him back gently.

“I wasn’t safe, not truly,” she intones carefully, “but that’s not important right now.”

Jon sighs before leaning down and touching his forehead to hers, “I’m sorry I failed you, little sister.”

“You didn’t fail me, Jon,” Arya says sharply, her voice suddenly as brittle as glass, “You never failed me.”

He heaves another sigh before separating from her, “If only it were that easy for me to believe it too.”

“You’ll believe it someday,” she says with her lips tugged up in a small smile, “But now you must go. M-mother will be coming soon to wake me up.”

“Aye,” Jon agrees, “I will go, but tell me, have you seen Rickon?”

“He was asleep when I went to see him.”

“Alright.”

He leaves her chambers quietly but before she closes the door, Arya hesitates before asking him, “A girl will see you when we break our fast?”

Ignoring her strange manner of speaking, for now, Jon only nods, lest he tells her that he never wants to part from her again. He’d parted with her once and he had died; but he does not say any of that to Arya. He only nods and walks away.

 

*     *     *

 

Robb is in their chambers, sitting up on his bed, eyes still heavy with slumber. Jon screeches to an abrupt halt at the door, just taking in the sight of his brother for a moment. _Gods, Robb_ – his rival, his best friend; dead too young with a crown too heavy.

“Jon!” Robb finally notices him, standing as still at the door as the statues in the crypt, “You are up early.”

“Yes, well,” Jon shrugs, faking nonchalance, “I woke up and couldn’t go back to sleep.”

Robb watches him silently before frowning, “Is something the matter? You are looking at me strangely.”

Jon smiles at him and hopes that his brother does not notice how melancholy it is, “Nothing is the matter. I am just really, _really_ , glad to see you.”

Robb eyes him warily and then nods, “If you are sure.”

“I am. Now, though,“ he teases, hoping against hoping that his voice does not sound as choked up to Robb as it does to him, “Now, go wash your face before your lady mother decides to come and do it for you.”

Robb’s horrified yelp is the only answer he receives before he is almost bowled over by a rush of red and white on its way out of the room.

 

*     *     *

  

His family is already in the Great Hall when he arrives. He takes his seat beside Arya, who spares him a quick smile before going back to her conversation with Rickon. Well, it looks like she is trying to have a conversation. Rickon is just a baby, only three years of age. His conversational skills are not particularly developed, and by the look on his face, he is well aware of it. He keeps flailing his hands about and scowling, the look foreign on his little face.

“He remembers,” Arya mutters to him without looking away from Rickon, “He said Shaggydog’s name.”

Jon nods, and out of the corner of his eyes, sees Lady Catelyn giving him a disdainful look before she is swiftly pulled back into conversation by Sansa. They seem to be talking about dresses, of all things.

He looks to Bran and finds him staring at him with a grave expression on his face. He cracks a small smile at his younger brother, but Bran seems to be mulling over something. Beside him, he suddenly feels Arya tense. He turns to look at her, only to find her staring at the doorway. He follows her gaze to Theon, who has only just arrived, and grips his knife tightly. His rage has not faded over the years. He may not have killed Bran and Rickon, as evident by their presence in the past, but he had burned Winterfell all the same and betrayed Robb.

Robb’s cheerful greeting is too loud amidst the sudden silence that seems to have fallen into the room. As one, all his siblings – except, Robb, of course, because Robb is innocent, and naïve, and so very alive –are glaring daggers at Theon. Even Rickon seems to be contemplating throwing a knife at him, judging by the way his hand was slowly inching towards one particularly sharp. Only Sansa looks to be capable of giving the traitor a false smile. Their father – his _uncle_ , he has to remind himself – gives them all a queer look.

As Theon takes his seat, Arya suddenly stands up.

“Well, I’m done,” she says, her tone curiously bland.

“Me too,” Sansa follows her sister’s example and then tugs at Rickon’s arm, “We’ll take him, mother.”

Lady Catelyn nods slowly, glancing  between both of her daughters. Sansa gently picks Rickon up and gestures at Arya to follow her. On their way out, Arya leans down and hisses in his ear, her warm breath leaving his skin tingling, “Godswood, after.” He draws a shuddering breath and nods. He looks up from his plate only when he is certain the girls are gone. Bran is giving him that strange look again.

“What was that about?” Robb asks him curiously, pausing in his discussion with Theon about something or other.

“Er, you know,” he says lamely, offering a small shrug, “Girls.”

 

*     *     *

  

He leaves the Great Hall together with Bran, ignoring the intrigued look on Robb’s face.

As they walk towards the godswood, he tentatively asks, “Are you okay?”

“Are you?”

“Not particularly.”

“Yeah,” Bran shrugs, “Me neither.”

“You were staring at me earlier,” he began again, “Was something the matter?”

Bran halters in his footsteps for the briefest of seconds before he resumes.

“Walking is very strange, after all this years,” he comments casually before his tone grows grave again, “Jon, do you want to know who your mother is? Because that is something we need to talk about. And it is something that Sansa and Arya will have to know as well.”

“I – “ Jon hesitates, exhales sharply and pushes the words out past the sudden lump in his throat, “I know who my mother is.”

“Aunt – “ Bran starts before Jon cuts him off with a sharp “Not here!”

He sighs, and rubs the heel of his palm on his forehead, feeling tired all of a sudden.

“We will talk about it in the godswood. With the others.”

 

 *     *     *

  

The others are already in the godswood when they arrive. They are sitting beneath the heart tree. Sansa and Rickon are talking. Well, Rickon is asking about Shaggydog repeatedly and crying, and Sansa is attempting to soothe him. Arya is sitting on the ground with her eyes closed and a serene expression on her face. However, the moment he and Bran step into the clearing, he is met with eyes as dark as his own. He admires her senses and wonders how exactly she honed them so well before pushing that thought out of his head. Arya is full of secrets now and he suspects she is holding them close to her chest as much for them as herself.

Sansa and Rickon look up from their conversation as well and he sits on the ground beside Arya. Bran sits next to Rickon, smiling at him gently.

For a moment, no one speaks and it seems all is quiet in the world. Jon wishes he could keep it that way, that he could spare them the war outside their door. But the gods are cruel and he does not have such luck.

“Do we have a plan?” Sansa asks, “I mean, there must be a reason we were all sent back, right?”

“Or, maybe,” Arya whispers softly, “We were merely an accident.”

“Why do you say that?”

“It was a blood spell, was it not?” She asks him, and off his nod, she sighs, “A girl thought so. Some blood spells work on all living members of your blood.”

“And how do you know that?” Sansa asks her, quirking an eyebrow.

“A girl -,” Arya pauses before speaking again, “I studied a few spells.” Off their surprised looks, she hastily adds, “And I knew a red priest once.”

“How we came here is not of importance right now,” Bran declares confidently, “We know what is coming and we know that we have to stop it.”

“So, a plan?” Sansa asks again.

“Yes, we need a plan, but before that,” Bran motions at him, “Jon has to tell you something, and yes, it is important because it has to be taken into consideration when we make our plans.”

Jon takes a deep breath, suddenly reluctant to reveal his parentage.

_They might not think I’m their brother anymore. Arya might not –_

Bran smiles at him encouragingly, and slowly, haltingly, he starts speaking, “Aunt Lyanna was my mother. And Rhaegar Targaryen was my father.”

“But father – “ Sansa’s eyes are wide, her mouth opening and closing like a fish.

“Father lied to protect him,” Bran answers for him, “Robert Baratheon was hunting for all the Targaryens, even babies, and killing them. Father made Aunt Lyanna a promise.”

_Promise me, Ned, promise me._

He had heard that voice, those words in that dark, dark world after he had died. There, he had seen the truth of his parentage. It had haunted him ever since.

Beside him, Arya has not spoken yet. He stares at her, trying to predict her reaction. Feeling his gaze upon her, she looks up and the corner of her lips lift up into a small smile.

“Don’t mope, Jon,“ she pokes his arm with her fingertips, “You’re still stuck with us, for better or worse. You're as much a wolf as you are a dragon. Yes, Jon, you’re still our brother.”

At that, he can feel a smile taking over his face gradually until he is sure that he is grinning like an idiot, but he does not care. Arya has always had that effect on him.

“And,” Arya adds, “I have a plan.”

“What?” Rickon finally speaks up, enquiring with a curious look on his childish face. He has been strangely quiet since the conversation began.

“Daenerys Targaryen.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, everyone! It's been a while since I've updated. Eight months, to be specific. But the last year has been incredibly difficult for me. I've been in and out of the hospital for a few months now, and I was recently diagnosed with endometrial cancer. It's still early stage and it is curable, but the side effects of my treatment take their toll on me. That, along with my college, has me really stressed out. But I'm hoping to write more now that I know for sure that the treatment is working. So, send good vibes my way and I hope you enjoy this chapter! 
> 
> As always, every kudos, bookmark and comment mean the world to me. Share your opinion in a comment, even if it's just a few words. They honestly make my day. Constructive criticism is welcome, of course, and if I have made a mistake anywhere, please tell me so I can fix it. I have a really bad habit of getting distracted halfway through sentences.
> 
> Thank you!
> 
> Cheers,
> 
> Sapphire xoxo


	5. of brothers and sisters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which there is a plan, sort of, and our favourite kids all hang out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> special thanks to the lovely [Naysa](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Naysa/pseuds/Naysa/works?fandom_id=242462) for listening to me whining and crying and being my very own cheerleader <333

In another life, Arya Stark had known Daenerys Targaryen; a lonely girl who could lay the entire world to waste, if she chose to. _But_ , she muses, _Daenerys was not her father, she was not the mad queen_. Kind, and just – she was the queen that the seven kingdoms needed.

She had met Daenerys in a queer way, though. Someone had wanted the little queen to receive the gift, but the faceless men had refused the offer. The kindly man had sent a girl as an envoy of the House of Black and White to inform the little queen. A girl had not worn her own face and had exchanged only a few necessary words. A girl had also seen the truth. Cersei would burn the kingdoms down and Daenerys would be the one to rebuild it from its ashes. Death was not her destiny.

“So, you want us to ally with my aunt?” Jon asks.

“Would she ally with us, though?” Sansa queries, her eyebrows pinched together, “House Stark did support the Baratheons during the Rebellion, after all.”

“She wants her family,” Arya says, pointing to Jon, “She’d want to see her nephew.”

“There’s always marriage to forge an alliance,” Bran speaks up, and off their looks, adds hastily, “Jon has Stark blood, he could marry her. He would be king.”

Jon almost chokes on air before regaining his breath, and balks at the younger boy, “My aunt? No, no.” He chances a glance her way and flushes strangely, “I will not marry her.”

“Bran has a point, though,” Arya adds reluctantly, because it _is_ true, as much as she hates it, “We will have to consider potential allies very carefully.”

“I am not marrying my aunt,” Jon repeats firmly, and Arya nods. Jon is not the only one who would need to be worrying about marriage, though.

“Sansa, the king will be coming soon, and – “

“Joffrey,” Sansa spits the name out like it is the vilest thing in the world, which it might as well be, and grimaces, “Yes, I’ll have to talk to mother about that.”

“You’re not saying yes,” Bran says. It’s a statement, not a question, and Rickon nods. He has been mostly silent – his age not helping his speech predicament at all.

“Of course not,” Sansa scoffs, “But we cannot say no to the king.”

Arya immediately latches onto her trail of thought, “So, we make sure that there is nothing to say no to.”

“We will have to secure a betrothal for me before the king can make an offer,” Sansa nods, “Perhaps a Southron house.”

“That leaves Arya,” Bran adds, “The king could make an offer for her.”

“What?” Arya almost laughs at the absurdity of that, “No, the king would not want Arya Horseface.”

Sansa makes to speak, perhaps to apologize, but Arya waves it off. It is fine. Well, it is not fine, but they have bigger things to worry about now. Jon looks as if he wants to say something too but he is cut off by Bran.

“You underestimate yourself, sister,” the auburn-haired boy says, “The king was in love with Aunt Lyanna, and you will grow up to look like her. You resemble her already.”

Her father had told her as much once upon a time. And Bran speaks the truth. It is a bitter truth to swallow.

“They will consider me too young, perhaps,” she muses, “And Father will not agree to it.”

“We will talk about Arya’s marriage prospects later,” Jon grits out with a firm tick of his jaw muscles, before turning to look at Bran, “What’s next?”

“The Reeds,” Bran replies, a small smile playing on his lips, “They will be allies. Jojen is a greenseer. And Howland Reed can confirm Jon’s parentage.”

“Greenseer? Do you think he may know of us, then?” Sansa asks.

“Perhaps,” Bran answers, “We’ll see.”

“Who else will ally with us, do you think?” Arya ponders.

“The Tyrells,” Sansa offers up instantly and then adds almost as an afterthought, “If we could offer them something in return.”

“What if….” Arya trails off uneasily, but Jon finishes her sentence like he used to before. It warms her heart, to have this at least. Jon has given so much of himself to other people over the years, like she had, that it is a comfort to know they will always have each other as well.

“You’re thinking of Robb, aren’t you?” he says and Arya reluctantly nods.

“If we could arrange a betrothal between me and Willas Tyrell and another between Robb and Margaery Tyrell, it will cement the alliance,” Sansa pipes up.

“With the politics out of the way, we have a more pressing concern,” Bran declares.

“The white walkers,” Jon says gravely, “My aunt’s dragons will not be enough.”

“There is dragonglass in Dragonstone,” Bran states, “Until Daenerys comes, we could try and make a case to Stannis Baratheon. Perhaps Uncle Benjen would be of help to us.”

Uncle Benjen. Another ghost they will have to face. Winterfell is full of ghosts these days.

“We should go back now,” Sansa says, “They will worry if we all disappear for hours on end.”

 

*     *     *

 

Sometimes, she thinks, her heart is going to burst out of her chest and consume her whole. She is alive, her family is alive, and her home still stands strong. She knows what she is going to lose if they do not succeed. _No_ , he tells herself, we will not _fail_.

She has a view of the whole yard from the window sill she is seated on, and she watches in melancholy as people go about their daily life. Winterfell is the very heart of the North, and its people are as strong as the castle itself.

She hears him approach before she sees him. Little brother, she had once called him, and now they are too big for their small bodies.

“You are sad, sister.” Bran says, moving forward to take a seat beside her.

“Aren’t we all?”

He nods at that, looking as somber as their lord father. She missed him, her little brother, when her world was ending.

A comfortable silence falls upon them, each lost into their own thoughts. Had Bran wanted his sister there, when _his_ world ended? She had cried for him, her little brother who wanted to be a knight, had mourned for him. And now she has her brother back, but he is no longer a greenboy. All of history happening inside his head, the future playing out beneath his eyelids, how does he not go mad?

“I missed you too.” Bran speaks up suddenly, startling her. “We are no longer children, none of us are.”

She ruffles his hair, tucking away the grief into a distant corner of her mind, and smiles. “No, we are not.”

There is still an emptiness inside of her, a void that was filled by Nymeria’s ferocious presence. _We will bring you home, girl,_ she vows, _you and your brothers and sisters._

She smiles at her little brother again, “We will all be together again soon.”

And Bran looks at her like he believes, and that is enough for her.

 

*     *     *

 

Jeyne Poole is shocked when Sansa scolds her for calling her sister Horseface.

Septa Mordane looks scandalized, as Sansa puts her needles down and stops sewing. She berates her, but Sansa pays her no mind and locks gaze with her younger sister.

Arya nods at her, and Sansa smiles, turning back to their septa. They go back to their sewing lessons, a tense silence in the air. Arya’s stitches are as crooked as ever, but she will have a different kind of Needle soon enough. _Will Jon still give me Needle?_ She wonders and then almost scoffs at herself. Of course he will give her Needle, the sentimental fool he is. He had always loved her best. He will always love her best.

Sansa, on the other hand, is a different matter entirely. Oh, she has no doubt that her sister loves her. After all, one may not like their family, but they will love them all the same. There had been too much bitterness and too many cruel words spoken between them as children. It is not all forgotten but they are family, and they have gone through the seven hells to see each other again.

 _What a pair we make_ , she thinks bemusedly, as she sneaks lemon cakes from the kitchen out to her sister.

After all, her sister loves her, and that matters.

They sit in a darkened corner of the corridor, in this little alcove Arya had found a lifetime ago. She draws up one leg to her chin languidly, watching as Sansa devours her cakes like they will grow legs and run away if she even dares to stop. It makes her sad, this sister of hers who is a woman grown and yet not. Foolish, naive Sansa who had dared to believe in love and songs and handsome princes and knights, who had everything she believed in thrown back in her face in mockery.

 _I will protect you this time_ , she vows to herself fiercely, _I won’t let them hurt you again._

Sansa suddenly stops on her quest to eat all the lemoncakes in a record time and looks up at her. She opens her mouth, as if to speak, and then closes it with a snap. Arya watches in interest as she wrings her hands together awkwardly. She lowers her head and stares at the plate of lemon cakes in front of her like it holds the answer to everything. Maybe it does, maybe it does not.

“I am sorry,“ Sansa abruptly states, her voice as soft as their mother says all ladies’ should be, “for calling you names. For never defending you before.”

“We were children,” Arya reminds her, “It is in the past.”

“It is,” Sansa sets her mouth in a grim line and pushes on, “and I am still sorry.”

“You are my sister,” she tells her, and the finality in her voice seems to convince Sansa because she nods and picks up another piece of cake.

 _I really did get her too many of them,_ she thinks bemusedly.

However, instead of eating the cake as she had expected her to, Sansa holds the cake out to her, like a peace offering, and stares at her challengingly until she accepts it and takes a bite.

“Stop staring.” Arya shoots her a mock scowl around the crumbs in her mouth, the laughter in her voice betraying her mirth, “and eat your cake.”

 

*     *     *

 

Of course their family notices their strange behaviour. She ignores their concern in favour of stabbing her meat viciously. This Theon is not the Theon who betrayed Robb and burned Winterfell and logically, she knows that he may never come to commit such atrocities if their plans succeed, but it is hard to forget what he did, will do, _whatever_ , when she sees the smug smile on his face.

Jon gives her an amused look from where he is seating with Robb and Theon on the other side of the table and she scowls at him too for good measure.

“Arya, child, are you alright?” She immediately wipes the scowl off her face at her father’s voice but it is too late. Everyone is looking at her already. She resists shooting a venomous look anywhere near the traitor’s vicinity and suppresses her grimace.

“Yes, father,” she says dutifully, “Just not hungry. May I be excused?”

Her father nods, placing one hand at her mother’s arm to stop her from questioning her daughter. Arya is grateful. She takes off to her room and vaguely hears Jon excuse himself as well.

She sighs. Jon will forever worry about her, it seems.

She is at the door of her chamber when Jon catches up to her. He follows her into the room and gingerly takes a seat on her bed. Arya closes the door behind them quietly.

She crosses the room and sits beside him and Jon wraps an arm around her shoulders without any hesitation. She sags against him and he buries his head in her hair. It is as tangled as ever, and for a moment she thinks he will get stuck there. That thought makes her smile slightly and she feels the tension leave her body in its entirety.

“For the longest time, I thought you dead.” Jon starts, his voice a low timbre against her hair. “And then I thought you married to the Boltons.”

It must have been torture for him, not being able to protect his little sister. But she did not need protection then, and she certainly does not need protection now.

“It was never me.” She entwines her fingers with his, their hands fitting together perfectly at her shoulders. “I am here now.”

“Aye, you are.”

He sighs, raising his other arm and rubbing his eyes with the heel of his palm. The weariness in his face makes him look ages older, and _something_ in her chest twists uncomfortably.

“Theon is -,” he starts before pausing, and dragging a hand through his hair, and then pushes out the words as if even speaking them pains him, “He paid for what he did, believe me. And he regretted what he did. Believe me, he regretted it.”

And Arya does. She does believe him. Theon had grown up with them, was a part of them, which is why Arya suspects his betrayal had hurt tremendously. So, even though there is a part of her that would not mind if Theon suddenly dropped dead in front of her, there is also a part of her that would grieve for him.

So, she nods and lets it go quietly.

“I will save my rage for those who have not, then.”

Jon smiles into her hair and presses a kiss, before gently unwinding their hold on each other and pushing to his feet heavily.

 _He is not graceful_ , she thinks absentmindedly, _Syrio would have had fun training him as a water dancer._

“I must go now.” Jon looks at her with those sad, sad eyes before turning towards the door.

“Jon,” she calls to him on an impulse, “Train with me in the morning?”

His smile is as bright as the sun.

 

*     *     *

 

They do not train the next morning. Their lord father takes her brothers to see the king’s justice done. They come back with six wolf pups, and Arya does not feel quite as empty anymore.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, everyone! So there it is, finally an update! And I have finished all my make up courses for my first year of college, and my treatment is going well, and I'm back to writing! So far, life is good. Thank you to every one of you for sending me good vibes. They mean the world to me!
> 
> Has every one been watching the new season? I loathe it from the bottom of my heart. I weep over what D&D have done to my favourite characters. Show!Arya has been treated so unfairly and there is a lot of hate against her in the fandom. But please remember that show!Arya is not the real Arya. If you are mad, please be mad at the directors. Please blame the script, not the character. I have seen a lot of comments against her that simply break my heart.
> 
> As always, every kudos, bookmark and comment mean the world to me. Share your opinion in a comment, even if it's just a few words. They honestly make my day. Constructive criticism is welcome, of course, and if I have made a mistake anywhere, please tell me so I can fix it. I have a really bad habit of getting distracted halfway through sentences.
> 
> Thank you!
> 
> Cheers,
> 
> Sapphire xoxo

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is an idea that's been stuck in my head for a while. I am finally putting it down into words. The updates will be unscheduled and sporadic, but I will try my best. If I'm being a lazy bum, I give you my full permission to yell at me about it on my [tumblr ask](http://horcrucxs.tumblr.com/ask).
> 
> (Yes, [Naysa](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Naysa/pseuds/Naysa), I'm taking a leaf out of your book)
> 
>  
> 
> Cheers,  
> Sapphire xoxo


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